


Walk Softly

by flinchflower



Series: Slash Me Twice [47]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Tag-team, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:53:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flinchflower/pseuds/flinchflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt 47: Dean cares for Sam, and they tag-team their Dad to avoid trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walk Softly

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not for profit, simply a writing exercise. Herein lies Dean/Sam slash, in an AU timeline where John did not lose his life. John appears in parental context only. Follows in series from previous prompts, but stands alone if preferred.

“WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?” John’s voice ricocheted around the interior of the Impala, despite the fact that Sam had turned the volume down on his cell in anticipation of a famed John Winchester explosion.

“Exactly where you wanted us to be, in the mountains in Colorado in the middle of nowhere, not to mention the additions of thunderstorms, lack of power, and number of cell towers that were knocked down by the storm.” Sam’s voice isn’t exactly snotty, more matter of fact, but Dean reaches over and taps a loose fist on his brother’s thing in warning. Sam holds the phone away from his ear, and both of them can hear John spluttering, and they exchange a knowing glance. Another minute, and words are forming clearly again.

“I’m down north of Albequerque – Dean knows where. Your ETA?”

Sam glances at Dean. “Albequerque?” He knows perfectly well how long it’s going to take, but in the Impala, the driver is the dictator. Besides, maybe they could-

Dean mutters a private shit under his breath. “Four hours.”

“Four hours, Dad.”

“You get your asses down here by eight or I swear to God-“

“Right. We’ll be there.” And with that, Sam clicks off his phone.

“Dude. You’re SO cruising.”

“I don’t care.” Petulance drips from each of Sam’s words.

Dean clears his throat.

“WHAT?” Sam’s now wearing his bitchface, and Dean gives him a smirk.

“You’re cruising with me, too, Sammy.”

“Wha- oh.” The boy subsides somewhat, and fidgets uncomfortably. Dean knows he’s still feeling the spanking, and hopes it’s enough. He can’t really blame the kid, John is impossible to deal with when he’s had a scare. He relaxes when Sam mumbles something that sounds like “sorry” in his direction.

“Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Sam… just please, please try not to make him any madder than he already is –“

“Dean…” The whining is back, and amplified. Dean glances at his watch, makes a quick decision. He yanks the car onto an exit, and pulls down the first dirt road. Sam looks scared, and Dean’s glad for it. He turns the car off and gets out, opens Sam’s door, beckons to him. Sam won’t quite look him in the eye, and Dean is torn between hating himself and wanting to laugh.

“Come on, Sam.”

“Dean, I-“ It’s pleading, and fear, and Sam’s moving slowly. Dean can hear everything unsaid – the apology, the scared little boy coming out, and the obedience that tells Dean just how much his brother loves and respects him. Goddamn girl, that’s what Sam is. He pushes the irritation out, knowing the situation probably is making Sam nervous – hell, he intended it to. Grabbing Sam to hurry him along, his grip isn’t rough like it would be if he were really angry. It’s just that there’s a point to prove, he’s not up for four hours of arguing about it, and this way will be faster.

He leads a stammering Sam around to the rear of the Impala, and bends him forward over the trunk. Sam finally finds his words at that point.

“Dean, Dean, I’m sorry, please don’t-“

“Enough, Sam.” His voice is gentle this time. He unbuttons Sam’s jeans, pulls them down, pulls the soft boxers down too. The muscled thighs and behind he’s looking at are still crimson from last night, and there are light shadows where there are bruises that’ll last for a day or two. He runs a fond hand over the lingering heat there, and then bends over the trunk himself, next to Sam, mirroring the boy’s position. “Now,” he says. “Take a minute to think about this, Sam. Dad’s pissed as hell. You give him even a fraction of what you’ve been sending my way in the last couple of minutes, and the next thing you know we’re both gonna find ourselves bent over the tailgate of his truck.” He pauses to let that sink in. “I’m not too keen on the idea, and I don’t think you are either, so maybe you could reel it in, buddy, ok?”

“Yeah,” Sam says hoarsely. “Sorry.”

“Sure,” Dean says, easygoing, and stands up. Amused that Sam doesn’t move, he turns the boy around, pull the loose jeans back up, buttons them. The kid’s gonna need a hug, and it makes a good excuse. He lets Sam pretend not to sniffle on his shoulder, then finally escorts him around to the passenger side, gives him a light swat on the seat of his pants, and closes the door once the boy’s folded his long limbs in.

Sam’s quiet for the next hour or so, and Dean spends the time gathering every scrap of calm and memory of respect for his father that he can, hoping that the boy is doing the same. Sam’s quiet words confirm it, thankfully.

“We didn’t delay too long?”

“No, Sam. Hey, man, I put all that research on this last gig in your pack, you might want to run through it, organize it – maybe it’ll placate him?” Dean sounds hopeful, and his brother responds with a wry smile, reaching into the backseat to grab the bag.

“We did come across some stuff that he’ll want to see, even though the gig was a bust.”

They spend the rest of the trip chatting about the papers Sam is rummaging through and organizing, and they’re both pretty relaxed by the time they pull up to the remote motel, to see John pacing back and forth in front of a room. They exchange glances, but just climb on out, popping the trunk to grab their bags and overnight equipment, and head on over to him.

“Where the hell have you been? That was four and a half hours?”

“Stopped to pee,” Dean says matter of factly, and Sam marvels at his ability to lie in a situation like this.

“Dammit! You get inside,” he says gruffly, yanking the door open, and the boys file inside, Sam first, Dean following, just like they did as children. The door bangs shut behind them as John closes it. “Sit down!” They manage to exchange another look as they neatly place their duffels behind them, and take a seat on the unrumpled bed. They watch him pace for a few minutes quietly. Dean’s practically not breathing, hoping he won’t hear the sharp intake of breath that precedes Sam being stupid and trying to placate the man. Finally, John stops in front of them, reaches out to Sam, turns Sam’s face up, studies him, and then does the same with Dean. Then his shoulders slump.

“God,” he says, wiping a hand over his face. “I was afraid something had happened.”

“We’re fine, Dad,” Dean says quietly, and John nods, relaxing. “The hunt was a bust – hoax.” The simple words and quiet tone serve to relax John the rest of the way.

“I thought the research would lead to something,” John says, and it’s the best peace offering they’re going to get, and even with it they’re still gonna have to watch their asses for a day or two.

“I turned up some interesting stuff, Dad, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time. I’ve got it here if you want to look at – I came across a new warding ritual, too.”

“Oh?”

Hook, line and sinker, thinks Dean, he loves it when they can tag team the old man like that. Sam’s face brightens with John’s interest, and the two men spread the papers out on the bed, Sam stretching out. Dean chuckles to himself, glad the room doesn’t have a table, because John would never miss the fact that Sam would have trouble sitting right about now. He gets their gear stowed properly, and glancing at the clock, reinforces the runes and salt lines that John has established. Sam catches his eye, and it’s time for phase two.

Sam glances up from a paper he’s handed to John, gives Dean puppy dog eyes, though they’re not full power, since he knows Dean’s aware they’re launching the second phase.

“Dean? See if there’s still a box of Twinkies in my bag?” It works the same way it always does, and they both wonder if John actually knows that Sam won’t touch a Twinkie with a ten foot pole, that they’re one of Dean’s vices.

“What? Sam, you shouldn’t be eating that crap. You boys haven’t had supper?”

“No, sir.”

“Order some pizza, then, it’s late. Sam, this is great. We can go over the rest of it tomorrow,” John says decisively, and Dean grabs the phone with a nod at both of them. Phase two, mission complete. If they can get to bed without incident, they’ll likely be fine.

Sam slumps back on the headboard after he and Dean polish off an extra-large, and sighs with contentment, earning an amused glance from John.

“Tired?”

Their replies blend together, just as they intend them too – Dean says yes, and Sam denies it. John frowns, and orders Sam to go and get ready for bed, and spends the time that Sam’s in the bathroom lecturing Dean on making sure that Sam gets enough rest. Once Dean’s safely ensconced in the bathroom, he unleashes the traditional eat, sleep, and exercise lecture on Sam, who simply digs out the doe eyes again, and works up some masterful sleepy blinking. John pulls back the covers, tucks his youngest son in, then chases Dean into bed when the older boy heads for the television.

Satisfied that his sons are where they belong, and in one piece, John leans against the headboard of his own, flicks the television on low. Dean throws an arm over the younger boy, and gazes at the television, eyes drooping. Sam’s asleep already, and John finally relaxes – his family is whole again.

**Author's Note:**

> Music: Aerosmith - Sweet Emotion


End file.
